The Message
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: After leading his tank company in a week of desert combat training at Twentynine Palms, Jonas Kriegman comes home to a voicemail from Andre, left for him while he was out.


**The Message**

* * *

"Identify multiple targets!" Corporal Aaron Crenshaw, gunner of Anvil Actual, called out. "Multiple T-72's, say again, multiple T-72's!"

"All Anvil Victors," Captain Jonas Kriegman said into his helmet's radio, "all Anvil Victors, this is Anvil Actual. Multiple T-72's, I say again, multiple T-72's closing on our position. From here on out, all victors and foot mobiles ahead of our position are considered hostile. Engage and destroy. How copy?"

"Anvil Actual, this is Anvil 1 Actual, solid copy."

"Anvil 2 Actual copies all."

"Anvil Actual, Anvil 3 Actual, solid copy."

"Anvil 4 actual copies all, moving to engage enemy tanks."

Jonas Kriegman, the dark-haired commander of Charlie Company, 1st Tanks, grinned to himself as he looked out of his M1A1 Abrams tank, through the open commander's hatch. He keyed his headset again, "Let's go to work, people; this is why we came here."

With that, the 26-year-old Marine officer dropped himself down into the commander's seat inside the M1's turret, reached up, and pulled the hatch closed above him. After securing it, Jonas called out, "Whenever you're ready, Crenshaw! Fire sabot! Light 'em the fuck up!"

"On the way!" Crenshaw yelled, and the 65-ton tank shuddered as its main gun roared, sending a 120mm armor-piercing round downrange. The T-72 that Crenshaw had targeted in the middle of the column, roughly 1200 meters away, abruptly blew up not even one second later.

The Russian T-72 main battle tank, the MBT of choice for numerous enemies of freedom across the world, namely dictator Saddam Hussein's Iraq, had been the latest thing thirty years ago, but it was an old beast and well past its prime, especially in the stock, non-upgraded form the Iraqi Army and even the Republican Guard, Hussein's elite forces, were known to use it in.

The T-72 had always been a cheap, mass-produced tank, though, right from the start. No great amount of money had been put into its armor or even protecting its ammunition, which was stored in the center of the hull. So when the stock of 105mm shells and propellant was penetrated by the sabot round from Jonas' M1, it all simply blew up, filling the tank with fire and blowing its turret clean off.

In the span of two seconds, Lance Corporal Thomas Schaefer, Jonas' loader, drew another 120mm sabot round from the Abrams' ammunition storage, kicked the spent casing of the previous round aside as it clattered to the floor, shoved the new round in and closed the breech.

"Sabot ready!" Schaefer called.

"On the way!" Crenshaw shouted over the roaring of the Abrams' gas-turbine engine.

Downrange, another T-72 exploded, then two, then three more. A fourth and fifth exploded as Anvil 3's tanks continued to fire from nearby.

"Six T-72's engaged and destroyed!" Anvil 3 Actual called out.

"Solid copy, Anvil 3, good fucking work," Jonas said, unable to keep a note of delight from his voice.

"Anvil Actual, this is Anvil 4 Actual, five T-72's engaged and destroyed."

"Anvil 1, Anvil 2, report sitrep," Jonas called into his headset.

"Anvil Actual, I count four T-72's and six BMP's destroyed."

"This is Anvil 2, we have six T-72's and one T-55 engaged and destroyed."

Off in the distance, thunder rolled across the open desert as a reinforced battery of rocket artillery opened fire.

"All Anvil victors, gimme all you got, I say again, full throttle! We gotta close on those BM-21s before they get us zeroed in!"

The platoon leaders all radioed acknowledgement, and Jonas was thrown back in his seat as the Abrams jumped forward, like a ravenously hungry beast, eager to close in and kill. The giant engine roared louder still as the tank raced towards its maximum speed of 50 miles per hour.

Explosions shook the ground around the tank, and several tanks reported being hit and still operational. Jonas' tank shuddered and he swore violently.

"Anvil 3-3 and 3-2 are hit, say again, 2 tanks down!" one of Anvil 3's other tanks radioed.

"All Anvil victors," Jonas called out, "continue advance, continue advance, move it!"

More explosions rocked the tank; the BM-21's were going to wipe out the whole company if they didn't do something fast.

"McCandless," Jonas shouted to his driver, "move it!"

"I'm givin' her all I got, sir!" McCandless shouted back.

"Goddamn it, haul ass, let's _go_!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Identify multiple tanks! Company strength!" Crenshaw called out.

"They're trying to shield the BM-21s from our advance," Jonas said to himself, then keyed his headset. "All Anvil victors, engage and destroy enemy armor directly ahead, then engage enemy BM-21's."

"This is fucking awesome," Crenshaw said with remarkable calm. "My chi is mad focused, yo."

Jonas grinned again. He knew just what Crenshaw meant. The adrenaline rush from this was like nothing else in the world.

"Give me a sabot on the lead tank coming in from the west," Jonas said calmly. "Fire!"

"On the way!" Crenshaw shouted, and the M1 jumped as its cannon fired. Ahead of the racing formation of M1 tanks, T-72's were starting to explode, one after the other. Hard-packed dirt blew into the air in fountains as 125mm shells narrowly missed the Marine armor.

"HEAT! Give me a HEAT round on the next two targets!" Jonas shouted.

"On the way!"

The 120mm cannon belched fire and thunder again and again, shaking the tank each time. Dust and fumes from the spent shell casings filled the air of the tank's interior as one shell after another clattered to the floor of the turret. Each member of the crew worked tirelessly, knowing that their lives were measured in seconds, not minutes, hours, or years. Right now, they were all but dead already unless they could shoot faster and straighter than the enemy.

Then they were charging up and over the edge of the plateau, past the destroyed tanks and into the unprotected interior of the BM-21 fire base.

"Identify multiple BM-21s, identify multiple BMP's, identify troops!" Crenshaw shouted.

"BMP's first!" Jonas yelled back. "Fire HEAT!"

"On the way!"

The enemy armored personnel carriers were destroyed in short order, as was a single platoon of five tanks that came into view as the company pressed into the base.

"Got foot mobiles and BM-21," Crenshaw said.

"All Anvil victors, engage and destroy enemy victors and foot mobiles!" Jonas shouted. "Use the fifties! Waste the motherfuckers!"

A new noise filled the air as .50-caliber machine guns began to chatter, including the one mounted beside the main cannon in the M1's turret on Jonas' tank. Jonas was temped to open the hatch above him and go for the fifty on the roof in front of his station, but that would mean exposing himself to the bullets pinging off the hull and turret of the tank, to possible friendly fire from M1's behind his own, and to shrapnel from the exploding BM-21's, tanks, and APC's.

Infantry and gun crewman were cut down as soon as they appeared, and then Anvil was all over the base. The rocket trucks and their stores of ammunition detonated with a roar that shook the sky, and Jonas screamed over the noise, "I said, god- _damn_ , what a rush!"

"Holy _shit_!" McCandless shouted.

"We fucking _rock_ , Cap!" Crenshaw yelled, blasting away with the coaxial machine gun. "Jesus, these guys are fucked!"

Jonas watched through his scopes as his company rolled through the compound, killing everything that got in the way. They never missed. No vehicle or human among the enemy escaped. Enemy armor, yet another company, appeared on the other side of the base as the company reached it, and Jonas watched proudly as his men destroyed them. A company, some twenty T-72 tanks, was obliterated in a minute and a half.

One after another just blew up, many times sending its turret flying into the air as the ammunition supply detonated.

"Boom! God-damn, get some, motherfuckers!" Crenshaw shouted joyously.

"And that does it," Jonas announced. Keying his headset, he said, "All Anvil victors, all Anvil victors, this is Anvil Actual. Fucking excellent work. We're done here."

"Anvil Actual," another voice said into Jonas' headphones, "Hades sends his regards and will be there on your return from the range."

"Solid copy," Jonas replied. He radioed instructions to the "disabled" tanks to start back up as the company turned around and rejoined them, and ordered his tanks to drive back from the range.

"Jesus, fuckin-A, Captain!" Crenshaw whooped.

"That was the fuckin' shit!" Schaefer declared.

"Can't even imagine what it's gonna be like to do it for real," McCandless remarked from up front. "This is awesome."

"It'll be close enough to this," Jonas said, opening his hatch. "Just don't drive us over any mines when we actually go to war, all right, Candles?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll try to avoid 'em."

"Thanks, Corporal."

"Hey, anybody realize it's Hitler's birthday?" Crenshaw asked.

"You wanna hold a ceremony in his honor?" Jonas replied, looking at his gunner.

"Nah, Cap, I just was thinkin' I'd mention it."

"Hey, I bet the Cap's brother'd like to celebrate Hitler's birthday," Schaefer spoke up. "No, seriously, think about it. When we invade Iraq or Iran or Saudi Arabia, or some other shithole country in 2002 or 2004, it's gonna be April like it is now, and Andre Kriegman, brother of our fearless captain, is gonna be celebrating the Nazi Actual's birthday while we invade a country full of sand niggers." Schaefer paused, and added, "Well, oil, too. Definitely oil." He paused again. "What do you think, Cap?"

"I think it's time for you to shut the fuck up," Jonas replied, and the rest of the men in the tank laughed.

 **XX**

Charlie Company, part of the 1st Tank Battalion, the armored strike force of the 1st Marine Division, had been under Jonas Kriegman's command for two years. It had been in lousy shape before Jonas showed up, but now, it was routinely ranked as the best company in the battalion.

The other three line companies- Alpha, Bravo, and Delta- were just going to have to suck it the fuck up. Jonas' Marines couldn't be bested, couldn't be beaten. Any enemy force that went up against them in a real war was going to get its ass kicked so hard they wouldn't ever get up again.

That was exactly the idea behind exercises like the one 1st Tanks had carried out today. Live-fire from start to finish, real vehicles to destroy, the whole works. Only the gun crews and infantry were cardboard cutouts, and the near-misses from the rockets and tanks were specially-designed explosive charges set at various points in the desert.

As for the disabled Abrams tanks, every one of them was fine. A few tanks had been ordered to play the role of damaged or disabled tanks during the assault on the rocket base, and had been under orders to keep that a secret from all other members of the company.

It was something Jonas suspected would be done- Lieutenant Colonel Kazinski, the battalion commander, was fond of throwing those kind of twists and more into his battalion's exercises.

"Hey, so Cap, you really think we're gonna be goin' to war?" McCandless called from up front.

"I fucking hope so," Jonas said fervently. "A goddamn week in this shithole desert, drilling like we're about to grab all the fucking oil in the fucking Middle East starting in May- I fucking hope we're gonna go to war!"

"Amen, sir," Crenshaw said.

"I'm for whatever keeps the gas cheap," Schaefer drawled. He was from Pine Ridge, Mississippi, and had the least formal education of any of the men in the tank. He was also the best driver in the company was extremely proud of the fact that his steady pay in the Marine Corps enabled him to send money home to support his mother, his six brothers, and two sisters.

"Amen, brother," Crenshaw said again. He was a lean, highly-athletic surfer kid from Santa Barbara, California, and he was always using words like "brother" and talking about his "chi".

"Hey, uh, Captain," Schaefer said after a minute or so.

"Yeah?"

"So can I really go to The Citadel on a scholarship after I get outta the Marine Corps? I was thinkin' I could go in with the Marine Reserve as an officer and then go back to Pine Ridge and look after my family, you know. Uh, sir."

"I can make it happen for you," Jonas said evenly. "But don't you think we oughta make sure you can read and count past ten first?"

"Who said Schaefer can count to ten?" McCandless shouted over the engine, and the four men laughed.

"Goddamn fucking amazing day," Crenshaw declared, taking his helmet off and mopping at the sweat that had been running down his face. "What a fucking awesome day."

 **XX**

One hour later, Jonas climbed down from his M1, named "Blackjack"- a reference to both Jonas' boyhood idol, General of the Armies John J. "Blackjack" Pershing, and to Jonas' favorite card game- feeling like he needed very badly to piss, take a shower, and sleep.

Actually, after maybe four hours of sleep in the last 48, Jonas knew he could wait on the shower. He wasn't going to see Ashley, the California beauty he was planning on proposing to on July 4th, until tomorrow afternoon anyway.

 _Jesus Christ, I need to lie down_ , Jonas thought. He loved this job, but sleep sounded fucking great right now, and the Marine Corps wasn't big on letting its people sleep.

"I'm gonna just hit the rack and sleep the next couple of days," Schafer was saying. "Like, I close my eyes, man, and that's it. I'll be out."

"I hear you, brother," Crenshaw said, jumping down beside him.

McCandless was just emerging from the driver's hatch when he called back quietly, "Hades at my 9, closing fast."

Jonas had expected that, so he headed around the side of the tank and saluted sharply as Lieutenant Colonel Kazinski approached.

"Good evening, sir!" Jonas called out.

"Good evening," Kazinski replied, returning the salute. He grinned. "Goddamnit, son, shake my by the hand! That was fucking excellent fighting out there today! Fucking excellent!"

"I've got a lot of good Marines backing me up, sir," Jonas replied.

"Not only good, _damn_ good! I think it's their commander, something about the way he handles himself and runs a unit."

"Yes, sir," Jonas said.

As the battalion commander vigorously shook hands with Jonas, he said, "Got a blues dinner at battalion headquarters for all officers and NCO's E-8 and above. You're the guest of honor, Captain, so your attendance is mandatory."

"Was that tomorrow, sir?" Jonas asked, thinking right away that Ashley was gonna kill him if he cancelled their date. He feared her wrath more than he feared any enemy on the battlefield.

"No, today," Kazinski answered cheerfully. "So drive on home, shower, shave, get your blues on and present yourself at headquarters at 2100 hours."

"Yes, sir," Jonas said, saluting again as the Colonel headed on his way.

"Shit, how're you even gonna sleep tonight, Cap?" Crenshaw asked.

"Company's moving to the assembly area for the debrief," First Sergeant David Collins said, approaching Jonas. "Whenever you're ready, sir. First Lieutenant Lake is getting them organized."

"I'll be right there," Jonas replied, turning to his three crewmen. "All right, fellas. Let's go."

"Hey, Captain! Waste the motherfuckers!" Sergeant Bruton, from 1st Platoon, called out.

"Fuck yeah, Sarge!" Jonas shouted back.

"Waste the motherfuckers, sir!" several other tank crewmen shouted as they started toward the assembly area.

"Waste 'em, Marines!" Jonas barked, pleased and proud that his slogan had caught on.

Some of the guys knew Jonas had borrowed it from _Rules of Engagement_ , a kickass movie that came out last year. It didn't matter. They loved it anyway. It got the men of Charlie Company motivated, got them fired up and ready to go out and fuck shit up, which was what counted.

 **XX**

After a quick but detailed debrief of the company's performance today, with a full debrief of the company's performance during the desert exercises and that of the battalion as a whole to follow first thing next week, Jonas dismissed Charlie Company and headed to the diesel-powered 1986 Chevrolet Blazer the Marine Corps had issued to him and drove to his house on the base.

As a captain, Jonas enjoyed better housing than any but the highest enlisted men could obtain, and eventually he'd have better than any enlisted man could get. He'd never live in a $200,000 McMansion; that was for sure.

Could Jonas have that kind of a house one day, if he wanted to? He could have had it already. A friend from The Citadel had gone into the house-building business and was making $180,000 a year. About eight months ago, he'd offered Jonas a job, one that he said would stand indefinitely as long as his company had any slots open at all.

The job was to join up and be William Jenkins' partner. Work alongside him, coordinating the building projects, overseeing the sites, laying some drywall and tile here and there. Jonas would be making enough to buy a Ferrari after a couple years. Will already had financed one and was set to pay it off ahead of schedule. If Jonas took the job, he'd get to live in an awesome house, buy Ashley almost any car, clothes, or jewelry she liked. He'd get to see her every night, fuck her if she was in the mood, see the kids, when they had kids, be in their lives as a daily presence instead of a sporadic one…

Jonas had said no. He'd said no without any hesitation.

He loved this job, and he never wanted to do anything else. The money he got paid for it was just a bonus. Always had been, always would be.

 **XX**

Jonas had always excelled at moving, talking, and thinking fast and accurately under pressure; it was one of the main hallmarks of his life, and had led him through a glamorous athletics career in grade school, on to a full scholarship at The Citadel, and then to being a tank officer in the Marine Corps.

So when he was told to go home, shower, and present himself in dress blues at 1900, he didn't stop or hesitate for a second. He just moved, wasting no time at all as he dumped a mass of combat uniforms, body armor, and gear, secured the room of his house he kept them in, then showered, shaved, and dressed in a starched, freshly dry-cleaned set of Marine dress blues he kept ready for such occasions.

There was no need to frantically get his emblems, insignia of rank, ribbons or badges in place or polished. They were all there, perfect and ready to go. Nonetheless, Jonas went over each and every one of them, verifying they were indeed perfect, buffing off the smallest pieces of dust or smudging as he found it.

The high gloss black dress shoes, made of a kind of plastic that required no shoe polish, were uncomfortable but tailor made for full dress occasions. Jonas used a damp rag on each of them, then a dry one to wipe them clean.

After that, he fastened the Mameluke sword that hung in his closet to his waist. The Mameluke was an elegantly curved, deadly-looking ceremonial blade, the sword worn by every Marine officer to serve since 1826.

Following one final check of himself in his body-length closet mirror, Jonas grinned, saluted himself, and headed out to his car. He loved this life, never having a spare minute except on the rarest occasions. He was always going somewhere, doing something. It was the only way Jonas wanted to live.

 **XX**

Though Jonas arrived his habitual twenty minutes early, many of 1st Tank Battalion's officers and senior NCO's were already there. Lieutenant Lake and First Sergeant Collins greeted Jonas in the parking lot, resplendent in their own dress blues, and the three Marines headed inside, talking with the easy familiarity of a trio of close-knit warriors.

Inside the dining hall, Jonas realized he had mis-counted the number of men who had arrived here before him. Every one of the officers and senior non-commissioned officers- apart from Lake and Collins- was already there.

At the center of the head table stood Lieutenant Colonel Kazinski, who, as always, was making his speech with pure volume and projection of voice, no microphone at all.

"And now, gentlemen, please rise for one of the brightest rising stars in the Marine Corps. He is a warrior to the core. He conquers the toughest aspects of life in the Marine Corps and the women of Southern California with equal proficiency. He is lethal. When the day comes, I have not the slightest doubt that he will kill the enemies of this country the swift death they deserve. Please welcome the guest of honor of tonight's ceremony, Captain Jonas Kriegman!"

The officers and senior noncoms rose as one, and Jonas felt their eyes upon him as he marched resolutely down the center aisle between the tables.

"Semper Fi!" Colonel Kazinski roared, raising a glass high above him.

"SEMPER FI!" the other Marines in the room roared back, nearly deafening the recipient of the toast as they raised their own glasses.

Jonas was stunned. He'd never had so much fuss made over him before, not in any of his four years in the Marine Corps. He'd been the honor graduate of his OCS class in Quantico, and valedictorian of his class at The Citadel and salutatorian of his class at Stafford High School. He'd put everything he had, every day, into being the best he could be as a Marine officer. But what on earth was all this carrying on for?

 _Ours is not to wonder why_ , Jonas thought, _ours is but to do or die_. Even as an officer that held true. The Marine Corps had decided to honor Jonas, and that was that. He must have done something right.

Flanked by his executive officer and first sergeant, Jonas marched up to stand beside Colonel Kazinski; there was no mistaking what those three open chairs had to mean.

"Captain Kriegman," Colonel Kazinski said, "you have kicked more ass on the training field this week than some men do in their entire careers. You are as fearless and dedicated as any Marine I have ever met. You are fully deserving of this award."

Jonas stood at attention.

"The Navy and Marine Corps Medal is earned by "Distinguishing oneself by heroism not involving actual conflict with an enemy of the United States". Six months ago, Captain Kriegman, you did that and then some. Six months ago you showed what a Marine officer can do, even if he is off-duty and with no other Marines present when a crisis strikes. You have made 1st Tanks and the Marine Corps proud."

With that, Colonel Kazinski pinned the blue, yellow and red-ribboned medal, depicting an eagle holding a fouled anchor and the words HEROISM, on Jonas' dress uniform.

"I expect to pin gold oak leaves on your shoulders before long, Captain," Kazinski said, leaning in close as he secured the medal in place. "You're a fucking excellent Marine."

In the parlance of the battalion commander and his particular choice of words, to be called "fucking excellent" was the highest honor that could be bestowed. To have it said that you had performed to that degree meant you had not only met Kazinski's expectations, but surpassed them. It meant you had fulfilled his definition of what it meant to be a Marine.

"Thank you, sir," Jonas replied.

"What's that phrase your Charlie Company boys are always saying, Captain?"

"Uh, 'Waste the motherfuckers,' sir."

"That was your idea, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Gets them motivated."

"Goddamned right it does, Captain. You just keep that shit up, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir!"

 **XX**

The dinner lasted about an hour, but Jonas was there even longer as one Marine officer or NCO after another came up to him and shook his hand, offering their congratulations. During a brief pause, Jonas turned to Lake and Collins.

"You motherfuckers knew this was coming," Jonas said. It wasn't a question, but a statement. "You knew the whole time."

"Guilty as charged, sir," Collins answered.

"I'll get you for this. Both of you."

"We love you, too, sir," Lake said, a conspiratorial grin on his face.

 **XX**

On the way back to his house, Jonas alternately hummed and sang "Waltzing Matilda," the song of the 1st Marine Division.

He was midway through the song when he noticed an old Ford sedan on the opposite side of the road, close to a fenced-in motor pool filled with row after row of neatly-parked 2.5-ton and 5-ton trucks. The Ford had a spare tire leaned against its front passenger door, and the front right wheel was raised by a jack.

What looked to be a female Marine- or a slim young Marine- in fatigues was kneeling by the Ford's raised wheel, trying to get the lug nuts off.

Jonas pulled over on the right shoulder, worked the manual control for his window, then once it was lowered called out, "Out of gas?"

"Yeah, sure, 'course that's what it is," the young woman answered sarcastically.

The dark-haired Marine officer opened the driver's door of his truck and got out, fixing his dress cover in place.

"So you _are_ outta gas?" Jonas asked, keeping up the charade.

"Oh, fuck yeah," the WM answered. "I mean, that's exactly why I'm out here trying to get a fucking set of lug nuts off with a rusty pair of pliers…"

As she talked, the Marine turned around, and she trailed off as she spotted Jonas… and the two gleaming silver bars he wore on each of his shoulders.

"Uh-oh, he's a captain," Jonas said, grinning.

"Uh-oh, he's a captain," she agreed, standing up. Jonas went around to the back window of his truck, opened it, and pulled a tire iron from the back. Shitty as the tires of half the POVs on this base- and the roads they drove on- were, Jonas found himself carrying several just to keep up with all the times he had to stop and give somebody one, or do the job himself.

Jonas crossed the road and returned the salute the WM rendered. "So _would_ you like a hand, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir, I would."

"Alright then. So how'd somebody like you wind up on my beautiful, wonderful Twentynine Palms?"

"I just transferred in, sir, and if you think this base is beautiful or wonderful you should probably get your eyes checked."

"Well, I was out playing in the sand for a week. I guess it must be the sun glare I'm recovering from, but Twentynine Palms looks pretty beautiful to me."

The lieutenant laughed. "Clever, sir."

"Oh, I got a million just like that, all of 'em just as corny," Jonas said easily, drawing another laugh from her. Jonas was talented at that; he had always excelled at ingratiating himself with men and women. He was a natural athlete, an extrovert, a charmer.

Jonas quickly got down to business, using the tire iron to take the lug nuts off one by one. In seconds, he pulled the flat off, then replaced it with the spare.

"I'd have to spell this out for most of the guys on this base, Lieutenant, but I guess you already know not to take this thing drag-racing on Sunset Boulevard. Get it to a shop ASAP." He paused, looking at the blonde. "I hope I didn't just kill your plans for the coming weekend."

"Captain, sorry to say you just did. But if I see you fix another tire like that, I might just have to marry you."

"I got a proposal to make on America's birthday," Jonas said, flashing her a smile. "But, if she shoots me down, I might take you up on that offer."

"I hope she says yes," the lieutenant said, lowering the jack and putting it away, along with the flat tire and the tire iron. "I think any man who can actually do his own laundry is a rare find."

"You'll be disappointed if you're looking for many of those on this base," Jonas said, and they both laughed.

"I'm with HR up at base headquarters," the lieutenant said. "How about you, Captain?"

"Charlie Company, 1st Tanks," Jonas answered, flashing another charming smile.

"Nice to meet you, Charlie Company, 1st Tanks."

"Jonas Kriegman, actually," Jonas said.

"Thanks for your help, Jonas Kriegman."

"It was no trouble at all," Jonas said, giving her a bow.

She gave him a half-curtsy, sketched a salute, got into her car and drove away. Jonas laughed to himself, pleased with his own cleverness. Ashley would kick his ass if she found out he was even mock-flirting with other women, but it was nice knowing he hadn't lost his touch.

Jonas was about to start up his Blazer again when he slammed both hands on the wheel and exclaimed, "The fuckin' bitch stole my tire iron!"

 **XX**

The house was dark as Jonas' hair when he got back, more tired than ever but in a great mood nonetheless. His career was going better than ever, he'd had a little fun helping that WM out (even if she'd gotten one-up on him at the end) and his marriage proposal in July was sure to succeed.

Plus, the upcoming weekend on the beach with Ashley in Santa Monica was all but guaranteed to involve a lot of sex. After a week in the desert, Jonas needed that. He was beginning to think he'd better get all he could now, before the Corps really did send him to go fuck shit up in some desert shithole on the other side of the world for anywhere from a few months to a year.

Jonas couldn't wait to marry Ashley. She was just right for him, able to put up with Jonas' ego and fanatical athleticism and match it with her own. She helped Jonas keep up with aspects of his life he hadn't even realized he'd been neglecting, like staying in touch with his family back in Connecticut.

And that body…

It would've been fun talking to Andre about that, about how Ashley had pretty much everything a guy could want, but Jonas wasn't home very often. He barely made it back to New Stratford once or twice a year.

Gerhard and Johanne, Jonas' parents, were always griping that Jonas didn't call, write, or visit enough. Chris, Jonas' cousin, was a great drinking and shooting buddy, and while he didn't complain the same way about it, he'd indicated he wanted Jonas to be in touch more often.

Taking off his cover as he let himself in, Jonas promptly set to unbuttoning his blouse once he'd shut the door. He needed to get the hell out of this uniform and go to bed. As he headed for the room he used as an office, Jonas noticed an amber light flashing on the corded telephone sitting on his desk, indicating an unheard voicemail message.

It was probably one of his parents, calling to pester him about coming to visit again, or at least staying in touch better. Or maybe it was any one of Jonas' buddies from the Officer's Club, inviting him to go out drinking sometime; life in the Corps involved some hard fucking drinking off-duty.

The one person it probably wasn't was Andre. Jonas' younger brother- about eight years younger- had been close to him once, but that was years ago. Jonas had really hit his stride starting in middle school, and he had excelled ever since. He'd never looked back.

Andre, on the other hand, had not done so great. Well, he hadn't done poorly, to tell the truth. Mom and Dad just seemed to feel that way because Andre hadn't been another straight-A jock like Jonas had been.

Good God, that had to be the most introspection Jonas had done on the subject in years. It was scary. Was that really what had happened? It seemed Jonas must have observed that somewhere along the line. Andre had definitely had a harder time in middle school and high school than Jonas remembered having himself. And there was that temper of his, getting him into trouble and upsetting his parents- a problem Jonas had never really struggled with.

But everything seemed fine back home. Jonas knew that if there actually was a problem, someone would have told him or he would have noticed it. He could pick out the turret and upper hull of a T-72 and identify it as such from 1,000 meters. There was no way he'd miss anything at home in New Stratford.

Jonas knew he was not close with Andre like had once been the case. Once, Jonas had been Andre's idol. It had been practically written on Andre's face that he adored his older brother. The day Jonas had almost died, the day he fell through the ice on that frozen lake behind the house… as Jonas came home from the hospital and began to recover, Andre was at his side constantly.

Andre had seemed happy back then. He'd smiled more often. That was something that Jonas remembered clearly. Even now, as his life seemed to be improving after the struggles in middle school, Andre didn't seem like he'd once been. Once, he'd been a happy child, quick to smile and laugh.

The kid was harder now. More serious. He smiled and laughed a lot less often, and displayed a crude, cynical sense of humor that surprised Jonas sometimes.

 _Oh, well_ , Jonas thought. _Just means he's getting ready to be a soldier, or a Marine. Maybe this is his way of prepping himself for it, getting all moto and shit. I just hope he starts sleeping with the hot chicks soon, because pretty soon he's gonna be married and he'll have to fuck just one._

Jonas pulled the blouse off, gazing in wonder for a moment at the Navy and Marine Corps Medal hanging beneath his mounted ribbons. Then he slung it over the leather swivel chair behind his desk and went over to the phone, pressing the button to play missed messages.

"You have ten unheard messages," the female voice of the phone chirped.

"Oh, Jesusfucking _Christ_ ," Jonas sighed in exasperation. There was probably a mountain of mail waiting for him at the post office, too. It was a wonder nobody had come and repoe'd Jonas' car, a red 1998 GMC Suburban. God plus the bank sure as hell knew he hadn't paid it off yet.

The twenty-six-year-old seriously considered hanging the thing up and listening to it all tomorrow. He actually reached for the button to do so. But at the last moment, he pulled out the leather chair, threw himself into it, and propped his legs up on the desk.

There were calls from Ashley, sweet and sentimental; she was trying to learn to write poetry and was giving Jonas her best. It wasn't very good, but… the heart was there. All the heart a retired Marine colonel's daughter had to give. She knew Jonas was out in the field for a week, but she called to talk to him and wish him well anyway. It made Jonas smile, listening to her voice, and he wondered for a time how he had ever gotten so lucky.

As expected, there were calls from his parents. They fussed at him for not calling, writing, or visiting more, like Jonas had expected. But mostly they missed him, thought of him often, were proud of him- and wanted him to know all of that. They also wanted to know when Jonas could come back to New Stratford, so there'd be time for him to attend Andre's impending graduation from high school in June.

"Good Christ," Jonas snickered, "has the little squirt really grown up that fast?" Seemed like just yesterday he'd been all of two feet tall.

While he was listening, Jonas took off his Citadel ring, which proclaimed him a member of The Citadel's Class of 1996, and placed it on his desk. Inside the heavy gold band was his name in elegant, flowery script, and the words _Labor Omnia Vincit_. Work Conquers All, the motto of Stafford High School, where Jonas had graduated in 1993.

The Citadel had been one of ten colleges that Jonas had gotten accepted at; one of those other nine had been Cornell. Jonas had reluctantly turned down their offer so he could get a head start on living the military life, but the people on the admissions board had said to keep them in mind for graduate school. Maybe Jonas could get posted within driving distance of Ithaca, New York as part of a Navy ROTC unit or a recruiting office. It was a long shot, but possible.

Jonas almost called it a day after two banks plus the Chevrolet-GMC dealership followed those messages up with much less sentimental ones. But the tenth message was from a caller Jonas didn't expect at all.

"Hey, man, it's Andre," the voice said from the phone's speaker.

"What the fuck?" Jonas said aloud, both at the identity of the caller and the fact that he leaned back too far and almost fell over in his chair.

"Sorry I missed you, guess you're out in the desert fucking shit up or something. It's okay. I know you love that shit. Maybe not the desert but you _definitely_ love being a Marine. Well, uh… okay… I wanted to call and say thank you for being such a good brother. You and I haven't talked a lot for years now; you kind of went off and did your own thing after high school, and honestly, you were doing your own thing awhile before that. I'll never be what you were, and I'll never be what you are. Mom and Dad need to fucking chill and realize that, but I guess that's asking too much. Whatever. My point is, uh, you did a great job. You've been a great older brother. I still remember how I idolized you as a kid. You were my hero."

A long pause. "I guess you still are. Kinda. It's hard to explain, man."

Another pause. "I just couldn't stand how you did everything I wanted to do and turned into everything I wanted to be. You've always been great at sports, good with girls, all that shit. And you kicked ass in school, too, all those good grades, so Mom and Dad never let that shit go. Never. They've always been disappointed with me because of you. Well, I'm _not_ you, Jonas, and I'm sick and _fucking_ tired of them _comparing_ me to you, but… none of this is your fault. Okay? I want you to always remember that: _None of this is your fault_. You're a good brother and a fucking kickass Marine. How Mom and Dad decide to treat me is on them, not you."

Andre paused again, this time for almost a minute.

"I guess I'm kinda glad you were out when I called, because this shit is hard to say even to a voicemail. It still has your voice. So… I'm just trying to say thank you for everything you did, and don't feel bad about what you didn't do, or didn't have time for. I've found my way and I'm sticking with it. Not like a Marine, but at least like a soldier. You'll always be my brother, Jonas. I'll never forget you. Whatever I do, wherever I go, you'll always be with me."

Yet another pause; Andre seemed to be struggling to compose himself.

"Look, uh, don't be worried 'cause I called and poured my fuckin' heart out, okay? I just… I needed to tell you some things. Some people go their whole lives and never tell the people they care about that they love them. I'm not making that mistake. I guess it's just with graduation coming up, the end of high school, I'm thinking about stuff, and… yeah. I know you'll give me shit for all this the next time you're back in New Stratford, but… I love you, Jonas. Thanks for being my brother. I'll see you around, Jack Frost."

Jonas stared at the phone for several minutes, floored beyond thought or words. He'd never heard Andre talk to him like that in… years. Actually, he'd never, ever heard Andre talk like that. When Jonas got up, he left the messages alone, unable to delete them like he usually did after listening. He'd have to save that last one, even if he didn't tell Andre he'd saved it- that would just embarrass him. But that shit was going on a cassette tape or a CD, or both. No question about it.

When Jonas did go upstairs to his bedroom, he found himself thinking about Andre. How odd that after thinking of Andre at length for the first time in months… how odd that he should get such a call from the little brother today.

 _I guess he's doing better than I thought. He's really grown up. I gotta defend him more often. Fuck, I hope he's not for real. I hope Mom and Dad haven't ridden his ass all through middle and high school trying to get him to be me. That's gotta fucking suck. I hope the times I noticed that, I was just imagining things. I should have made it clearer I was on his side. I should have been there for him more. Well… he seems to understand. Somehow._

Jonas hung the last of his dress uniform on the side of a chair and flopped down on his rack- or bed, if you wanted to call it what normal people did. As exhausted as he was, Jonas was out before he'd even laid there a minute.

But before he did, Jonas thought about what he'd said to Andre a long time ago, way back in the winter of 1990. As he lay on the couch by the fire, weak and frail even after his initial recovery in the hospital, Jonas had gotten foolishly sentimental and told seven-year-old Andre, "One day, you're gonna be somebody special. You're really gonna be something. One day. I just hope I can be there to see it."

There was one hell of a story behind Andre's phone call. Jonas knew it. Andre had found his way in life. He'd figured out who and what he wanted to be. Jonas knew that kind of mentality, could detect it in his brother's voice even over the phone. He hadn't heard Andre sound so sure of himself in years. It was a wonderful thing, knowing Andre was finding his way again. Jonas couldn't wait to see Andre in person again and hear all about it.

At long last, Andre was about to start fulfilling that silly prophecy a tired and ill Jonas had made in December 1990. He was gonna go to some Ivy League school that he and Cal had secretly gotten admitted to, or he was about to surprise everyone and graduate at the top of his class.

Or maybe he was going to join the Foreign Legion, or graduate from Yale in a few years. It was hard to say; Andre kept a lot to himself. But he was going to do something with his life. Jonas had no doubt of that. That was one thing you could count on with Andre; he might have taken a while to get to where he was gonna go, but once he set his sights on the objective, watch out.

Jonas was so proud of Andre. So damn proud.

It was Monday, April 30th. Jonas made a mental note to call home first thing in the morning, but his exhaustion was such that he slept well into the afternoon.

And by then, home was calling him.

* * *

 **A/N: 5-24-2018: Original date of completion.  
**

 **9-8-2018: Date of story upload.  
**

 **Completed my 25** **th** **story for this archive, currently the 45** **th** **it has. With each additional story added, this archive continues to have more than it's ever had before. I don't know when the archive was established, but it never even came close to 40 until 2016-2018. Now, it's closing in on 50.**

 **This is one of the first fully original stories I have written in some time. When I realized that a whole set of excellent stories had been deleted from the Zero Day archive on this site- I estimate it happened sometime in 2016- I became dead-set on restoring them to the site, even if I had to rewrite them from scratch based solely on what I could remember.**

 **As it happened, I was well into doing just that when I found the Word document copies I'd made of all but one of the deleted stories. Since I had already rewritten many of the Restoration Series stories on my own by that point, I decided to keep those up and add the exact copies as well.**

 **But in the process of working so hard to restore the much-reduced ZD archive to what it had been, I started getting involved with it like I never had been before, and ideas started coming to me as I worked. I started writing them down. Then, I started interacting with the user "calgabriel", whose superb insights and writing skill have inspired me further and helped refine my story ideas for this archive more than I can say.**

 **This one, specifically, developed as a result of my decision to set Jonas Kriegman as being a Marine officer in 2001. Even before I found out that an older brother to Andre *was* in fact canon- although that's the extent of what canon says of him, that he simply exists- I found I liked the ideas I had about Jonas. I wrote "Jack Frost", the first story that outright featured him, and "Snowballs", in which he appears. Now, there's "The Message". I liked this one a lot even as I wrote it, and I hope readers like it, too.**

 **This story is meant to not just show Jonas Kriegman doing what he loves and the world he lives in, but how he has become distant and removed from his family over the years since he left high school. Without meaning to, Jonas has largely ignored his family, especially his younger brother, and wound up quite oblivious to the darkness and rage that is eating up everything decent there ever was in Andre.**

 **Jonas is a good man, if a bit vainglorious and self-absorbed. The fact that he has rarely been home since joining the military is not really his fault, however. The U.S. Armed Forces, and the Marine Corps in particular, will send you wherever they want, whenever they want, sometimes at the shortest of notice. The needs of the service take priority and you only get so much time off in a year. One of many reasons it's not for everyone.**

 **Below are some remarks from calgabriel in our correspondence that I think are relevant here, starting with a paragraph he quoted from me in one of his replies:**

 **"I found it remarkably easy to envision and to depict Jonas Kriegman this way. Both having that different role in the family to Andre, being superior to him in many ways, having and becoming all the things that Andre utterly fails to, which, though it was surely not his intention, makes it all the worse for Andre. Imagine being Andre, coming through middle school and high school, perhaps the very ones where your older brother was a big hit years ago. He had popularity, athletic talent, had a clear and bright future well before leaving high school. Mom and Dad have always liked him, and heck, Andre understands that well. This brother was his hero when he was little and perhaps still is. But Jonas set the bar too high, much too high. And as the years went on he forgot about Andre more and more, leaving him to his own devices. Andre feels the pressure from Mom and Dad to be like Jonas, to just do what he did and be a success, but he can't even make friends the way Jonas did, and apart from running track he's no good as an athlete."**

 **You pretty much explained exactly what I envisioned of the characterization of Andre's older sibling. This is it. Having these set invisible standards his brother created and his parents passive-aggressively enforced that he wants to live up to initially built on admiration but throughout the years it twists itself into something else. The thing is, it's not even that Andre is doing that badly. He lacks tremendously socially but Andre's canonically quite intelligent and although he's not a jock, he's well-built. He could've done well after high school. None of that matters though because he's not 'as good' as his brother, all of his efforts are in vain. Zero Day is Andre's saving grace in the sense that it makes it easier to excuse how he is to himself with the reasoning that Zero Day is what he was meant to do. It helps him channel his energy into his 'life purpose' rather than into pushing himself to be like his brother.**

 **Something to note is how neither Andre nor Calvin mention their siblings in their final goodbye/last will recording. And although Cal's siblings do appear in some of the tapes, he does not mention them unless he is talking directly to them. I think both Andre and Cal really were trying to spare their siblings grief and saw no reason to bring them up when there was no relevancy.**

 **I absolutely also do not believe Andre despises his brother or anything along those lines because he could very easily make him a target if he wanted to and he doesn't set anything up like that in the video diaries. His brother at that point was probably just someone who although he might've been indifferent towards, did not want to make his life any harder on him than he already would by carrying out Zero Day in the first place. I could see Andre leaving him an email or voicemail or something as a 'just checking in with you' kind of thing when in reality he might just want to say some final things to him (without making it obvious that he's planning on killing others and himself) to make his peace with his brother before May 1st."**

 **Several fictional works are referenced in this story:**

 **-The 1995 film** _ **The General's Daughter**_

 **-The 2000 film** _ **Rules of Engagement**_

 **-The 2005 film** _ **Jarhead**_

 **-The 2011 video game** _ **Battlefield 3**_

 **Radio communications used in this story work the following way:**

 **-Company callsign: Anvil**

 **-Company commander: Anvil Actual**

 **-Platoon commanders: Anvil 1, 2, 3, and 4 Actual**

 **-Individual tanks in platoons- platoon first, then vehicle; Anvil 3-3 is the 3** **rd** **tank in 3** **rd** **platoon.**

 **-"Victor(s)" means "Vehicle(s)**

 **-"Over" means "End of transmission; reply is expected."**

 **-"Out" means "End of transmission; no reply is expected. I am done transmitting."**

 **-There is NO "over and out". Hollywood made that shit up. It does not exist in real life among anybody that uses a radio for any serious purpose.**

 **-"Say again" is used far more than "repeat", mainly because it can't be confused with you calling for repeat fire.**

 **-Commanders at the battalion level and above have their own callsigns, but it goes to that position, not to the individual, so the battalion XO could go on the radio under the battalion commander's callsign, particularly if he was acting as battalion commander at that time.**

 **Last of all, I'm not sure of how long it took Andre to say what he called to say, but 5 minutes might be a reasonable estimate, and the average voicemail in 2018 lasts 2-4. If the length of what Andre says stretches past the limit of typical voicemail, then or now, then that's fine. Sometimes a writer needs to make things bend to fit the story.**

 **All reviews are welcome. Tell me whatever you want, at whatever length you want.**

 **Lastly, to calgabriel: Thank you. Your contributions, each and every one, have been appreciated. You have provided me with enough insights, inspiration and just plain encouragement that I know I will be able to complete my additional planned stories for this movie's archive by the end of 2018. It would not have been possible without your assistance.**


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